Actus Reus (The Guilty Act)
by RulerOfAllThatIsEvilChiFlowers
Summary: A Maddek (ish) FanFiction. Mark kisses his best friend's wife like he's been doing it his entire life. Addison/Derek/Mark #Maddek #Maddison #Addek #Derk ? #Marek ? COMPLETED


_**Hey guys! I know I should be working on** Karma **, and I am, I promise, it's just that I've had a bit of trouble with the next chapter and I'm not yet a 100% proud of it. It might take a few more days or so and I'd like to first thank you all for the reviews. I**_ **_appreciated and loved them all. Truly._**

 ** _In the meantime, enjoy this one-shot of the trio, Maddek, that popped into my deprived mind while I was studying at the library yesterday. ;) Let me warn you, it's rated M, for mature._**

 ** _M FOR MATURE._**

 ** _This is very fictional. Very unusual. Very unrealistic. Very imaginative with a hint of Brokeback Mountain, if you know what I mean ;) It's weird, I guess, but my brain wanted to write this. Oh, and I'm writing in the_** ** _second person point of view. Something_ _I've never done before._**

 ** _Enjoy._**

 ** _Review._**

* * *

 **Actus Reus**

 _"The Guilty Act"_

* * *

When you kiss Addison, it's Derek that you taste.

It's there, clinging to the wet softness of her tongue, the tangy hint of weed and weakness and wallowing in self-pity that bites into your soul the way her teeth sinks into your bottom lip. It hurts a little and you would be surprised if she were anyone else but Addison, however it's all pain when it comes to her. _Always_. Some pain, some pleasure, but you would be damned to claim she wasn't the most beautiful sin you've ever seen.

But the bitter taste of iron masks the remnants of your best friend and you just open your mouth wider and let her in. For a moment, you forget the girl you're kissing belongs to the person you care about and _almost_ love the most in the world. Because he's family, you tell yourself. For a moment, you think it really is Derek's mouth pressing open and wet against yours, licking you clean and filling you up.

Except the hair twining between your fingers is too long and too soft, and her bones poke almost painfully through the thin coating of skin and satin, and when her jaw scrapes against yours, it's all smooth silkiness and doesn't prickle and burn your skin.

You blink, just once, and when your eyes focuses again, they're locked on hers and she's watching you through a haze of escape. She looks like herself, all sharp angles and dark shadows, prim and proper - _almost, just almost_ \- but you see the same cage reflected in her eyes.

The car is silent and all that comes with it, all the reasons Derek _should_ be with her and none of the reasons he _wants_ to be with her. It creeps up Fifth Avenue, and the harsh florescent lights paints cruel patterns across Addison's pale skin, and she looks dingy and used up, like she's been chewed up and spat back out. You've seen that look before, every time Derek shows up drunk and desperate at your front door after a heated argument with no one other than Addison, his wife.

You don't understand what's going on. You don't, but, really, you're the same cocky bastard you were yesterday, so you actually do.

You only kiss her harder and slip your hands under the hem of her dress the way you used to slip your hands under the hem of Derek's sweater when he'd fall into your arms and you'd make it all better.

Derek found you near the pond you both used to hang out at to feed the ducks. You don't understand why he always drops to his knees next to you and buries his face into your neck shakily. But you now cling to Addison the same way Derek clung to you that fall mid-afternoon and you remember him whimpering into your skin, his body melting into yours bonelessly.

It made you shiver. The way he practically tried to climb into your skin. He hadn't said a word in six months by then, you recalled.

You feel her hands travelling over your back and arms and the flat planes of your chest and you breathe quickly and shallowly as Derek did. His heart was thudding against his ribs hard enough that you could feel it through your shirt.

You never said anything, you never asked why; you don't think you could have handled the answer so you turned a blind eye.

When she pulls back to look in your eyes, you don't ask the question again because you know what to do, you know what she's going to say. You will still do it either way.

 _I want you._

You know how to do it.

You're _twelve-years-old_ and the store Mr. Shepherd spent almost every dime on hasn't break-even in months and has spent the entire night venting out on Derek's mom, arguing, and Derek has shown up at your doorstep crying and broken and convinced his life is over.

You can taste the same fears in the mouth singeing yours now. Your fingers move across her skin and they press, press, gently, right where her shoulder meets her neck. When she moans into your mouth, you can see the same ecstasy moving across Derek's preteen face.

You kiss her and taste him and makes her forget.

* * *

Addison is more brittle than Derek, and when your fingers skim over her bare skin, the pure lace, you don't want to press too hard, press too close, because you're afraid if she opens her eyes and looks – _really really looks_ – she'll realise she's clinging to the wrong blue-eyed boy.

You're not ready to lose her, not quite yet, not when she feels different and familiar all at once and it's confusing and just not so, not when you can taste everything you can't have with every flick of her tongue against yours.

Your hands move higher, over the hot skin of her thighs, and slip between them, caught between slick, wet heat and the coarse fabric of your pants. You're hard and tight all over and when you flick your wrist, just the tiniest bit, she whimpers a little at the back of her throat, red lips intact and open, and her hips settles over yours, softness against hardness.

You groan into her hair and you do it again, and again, and she's moaning again and again and it's delicate and feminine and there's nothing hard about it.

Her fingers slowly undoes the first few buttons of your shirt, hand delving at the zipper of your pants and you're _sixteen-years-old again_ , and you have had too much to drink to walk in a straight line, let alone get out of your jeans, and Derek's hands tremble a bit from too much Ketle One as they close over the zipper and pull tight denim down your knees. It was awkward in its own way when the uncertain hands landed on your lap, your hip; though you suspected it was coming, the strange sensation of hands that aren't your own is surprising but not unwelcome.

Her fingers are long and thin, and the nails click against the metal of the zipper as she slides it down and slips her hands into the ripple of curls. You half expect calluses from long practices of the saxophone, and while the fingers wrapping around you are smooth and soft, they shake slightly in the darkness, too.

When you kiss her again, inhaling deeply, shakily, you're the one to close your eyes and escape, focusing on Addison, _just Addison_ and not Derek.

 _No. Never Derek._

* * *

You flick your wrist again and it's hotter and wetter and tighter than before. She's ready, more ready than she's ever been, and you know it's not like any other time, any other woman. _It's Satan_. You've never had a thing for redheads, and you've never been one to keep secrets.

When your pants hit your ankles and her dress is rucked up over her stomach, it's about anything but anyone's friend.

 _Best friend._

You tell yourself it has nothing to do with anyone's best friend.

 _Your best friend._

You've never been anyone's first time before and so hasn't she but you can't stop watching the look in her eyes. So innocent and vulnerable. Not like the Satan you've come to love. It's dark as the car climbs north, so dark you can't tell if they're green or if they're blue. They shift and change with every block you cross and you watch them water with pain and narrow with concentration, and round with wonder as she shifts her hips just a tiny bit and a groan hisses between your lips as your eyes slide towards the back of your head.

When you open your eyes again there's something sparking in hers, and you don't recognise how alive they suddenly seem. A smirk plays across her lips in a smile that's nothing but wicked and depraved, it doesn't matter how good she looks falling out of her dress or the way her full lips part to form a perfect circle or how much you like the way her perfume catches the air and clings, because she's the devil incarnate, and she shifts her hips again, and again, and you're no longer the one with the experience.

Red lips moves along your jawbone, barely touching, barely there, barely Addison, like the whisper of the devil to man.

You're _fifteen-years-old_ and Derek's asking what _it's_ like, and you laugh in his face because the last thing you can ever see happening is any girl or anyone for that matter wanting and willing to have sex with a boy who has hair for a birds nest, acne, and weighs 130 pounds. He asks again and you try to explain, but your words catch in your mouth because the look in his eyes is so dead and blank it takes your breath away.

So, you gave him what he wanted.

Your hands starting at his chest and stroking down to his ribs and belly; your fingertips pressing just slightly harder in all the right places. Derek breaths are heavy, struggling to keep himself still and calm while you stroke his stomach and wait for him to calm down - you know he's torn between wanting, _needing_ your touch and being disgusted by the contact, being afraid of how _right_ this _wrong_ feels because you're not a girl.

You both know that boys aren't supposed to do this with boys. But you never really cared what society had to say.

It's different for Derek, though, because you don't have an overbearing Catholic mother - in fact, you don't have a mother anymore.

You feel the exact moment Derek wins his internal debate. But you feel the moan more than you hear it, it vibrates against your lips as his tongue presses into your mouth. Your heart pounds as your hands slip lower, finding the hardened bulge in his pants surprising and pleasing.

Nerves causes you to fumble when you release the string holding his pants up and slips them down to free him from its confines. You gently brush your fingers over it in acceptance before letting your fingers gently touch the hardened length.

Derek's moan is audible this time, his mouth releasing you to suck at your throat while one of his hands finds its way back down the front of your pants.

Your mind catches up that you're really doing this. Derek is really letting you stroke him and kiss him. He's trusting you, and you're trusting him. It's a mutual understanding between the two of you that out of everyone in the world, all the bad; whatever it is between you is good.

* * *

You struggle to catch your breath as she shifts again and your eyes round at the pulsing life glinting in hers.

Laughter rings in your ears and it's hers, because she sees the look in your eyes, and she takes advantage of the moment to choose the pace and push you back against slick leather and kiss you so hard you forget how to breathe. Heart presses against chest, like the cruel trail of liquid fire made over the weeping earth.

The first time it really happened was when you both were _thirteen-years-old._

You just turned, actually. You're a few months younger than Derek and Addison. You stare up and into Addison's eyes and the saying is correct - the eyes are the window to the soul because they're cold, deathly sad and desperate but her body and smile says otherwise.

All you want is for her to be happy. You try and try; all you do is try to cheer _them_ up, but they never are, never will. Your efforts are in vain and you can't seem to figure out why.

They don't ever notice your efforts.

It had been a little over week since Mr. Shepherd had been murdered and Derek had stopped talking altogether.

He hadn't seen a therapist yet, even though teachers at school were telling his mom that he ought to.

 _It's not normal._

 _Children who are predisposed to social anxiety - when faced with trauma, like the death of a parent, are more vulnerable to conditions such as post-traumatic mutism..._

Mrs. Shepherd just sighed, you were there too at the other side of the principal's office with Derek, said that she'd give it another week before taking him to a see therapist.

And you wondered where she's ever going to get the money to do just that since the store had closed down and Mr. Shepherd is ... _gone_.

You remember telling your dad about it and you remember Mrs. Shepherd in tears a week later.

Derek didn't talk for over a year.

Addison is scratching at your back in an attempt to make you move faster, before deciding to just press up and roll both of you over.

You went willingly, laying under her as she flatten herself against you and move at her own pace. The new angle has her gasping against your neck, biting down on the soft skin there until you are the one gasping for air.

"You don't have to hide it from me, Derek." You admit quietly as you both sit in the dirt. Your best friend seems calmed, his eyes shining slightly when the ducks come closer.

You know how it feels to lose a parent.

"I miss _her_. My mother." ... _though I'm still angry that she killed herself and left you._

The words nearly tumbles out of your mouth, and you flinch at how they sound. You haven't talked about your mother since she died seven years ago.

Derek's eyebrows go up, he knows it too and it's the first genuine expression you had ever seen him make in over a week. And then his eyes turn to regard you curiously. They're the eyes of Derek Shepherd, the boy that's hidden behind the detachment and numbness.

You blush hotly, breaking the eye contact to observe the birds waiting for more bread.

Time stops when Derek carefully reaches out and touch your cheek, turning your face back to look at him again. Wide eyed, you don't resist, too stunned and pleased by the unexpected contact to risk frightening him.

The hand brushes down your cheek to your neck and shoulders, and you openly stare in fascination at the look of pure ... something on Derek's 's face. You move slowly, reaching your own hand up to mirror the action. Derek flinches impulsively, the air rushing out of his mouth in a huff before he forces himself still. Eyes scrunched up, he allows your curious fingers to follow the same path his own had; his eyes fluttering open when your hand hesitates.

Derek's hand is frozen on your shoulder, his other grips at his own hip tightly - nearly in a vice. At a loss, you clear your throat. "Do you want me to ... to touch?"

Your tongue twines around hers again and you taste a _break_ up on her tongue. When your eyes lock with hers, the streetlights show only ocean staring back at you. When your fingers dig into the flesh of her hips and you pull her closer, sink into her deeper, the only person on your mind is exactly who _she_ is.

 _Your best friend._

"I know it hurts. And it is never going to stop hurting. But it will get easier, I promise. I want you to know that I understand what you're going through, Derek," and the words causes the dam to _break_ , then.

Your best friend makes a quiet whine and lurches forward to crush your lips together roughly. You gasp in pain as teeth clashes and his hands clutches at your face to fuse them together.

It was an inexperienced kiss of a _thirteen-year-old_.

It was messy and violent; needy and full of despair and understanding and shame.

You didn't resist the assault on your mouth, moving your lips as you tried to keep up with the brutal pace.

But it's over far too quickly.

When Derek pulls back, he smiles a small, haunted smile at you and you return it.

You return it because you feel that same smile inside your soul.

* * *

Afterwards, you're both tired and she sprawls across your chest as the streetlights paint glimmering pictures across her skin. Her cheek is tucked into the curve of your throat, and she's warm and soft against you. You close your eyes as a light washes over your face and you're _sixteen-years-old_ and the morning sun is stinging your eyes and Derek's bare chest is pressed against yours. It's an awkward fit, and his nose jabs into your shoulder hard enough to bruise and you can't feel your left foot. Booze and regret cling to the air, but you breathe in and pull him closer because it isn't supposed to be.

When he leaves an hour later, it's with a sheepish grin and promises that _it_ will never happen again. He keeps his word and starts dating Monica Geller ( _aka Moni-cow_ ) from the school band he's in a week later.

Addison says the same, but you know it's a lie when she tucks herself into the cradle of your arms and runs her foot up the length of your left calf. You pull her closer and hold her tighter and breathe her in. She smells like sex and satisfaction but nothing like regret.

You like the feeling.

You like her too.

When you kiss her goodnight, it's only Addison that you taste.

* * *

 _ **I know, it's weird and creepy and unrealistic. But that's what fanfiction is all about.**_

 _ **Please leave a review. You can tell how weird and icky this nonsense is. I feel you.**_


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